


Surrender

by Brenda



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, DCU, Justice League (2017), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: (But Clark Is Stubborn Enough For Both Of Them), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Hand Jobs, Introspection, M/M, Mirror Sex, POV Bruce Wayne, Post-Justice League (2017), Top Clark Kent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25674643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: "You're going to keep your eyes on me as I take you apart," Clark commands, that low voice rumbling from his solid chest like a perfectly tuned engine. "You're going to watch while Igiveyou all the pleasure you refuse to take for yourself, and you're going to see what I see."
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 36
Kudos: 493





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [susiecarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Susie!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Thank you for being you and being awesome and being an amazing friend and cheerleader - sorry this isn't the Greek Gods AU (yet!), but I'm sure you'll agree that Clark fucking Bruce into admitting he has F E E L I N G S is a pretty good substitute gift. :DD

Bruce and Clark are lying side by side on Bruce's bed, the sheets a hopeless, tangled mess beneath them. The air is redolent with sweat and sex, the scent pungent and overpowering; Bruce idly thinks the smell has got to be even worse for Clark. But Clark gives no indication that he's suffering – he's just sprawled on his back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths. Bruce's own body, in contrast, feels wobbly, like his legs won't hold him up if he tries to stand. He would be more annoyed about his lack of stamina, but it's hard to muster the energy after multiple mind-bending orgasms. 

Which, he supposes, is the point.

"Do you mind if we...if we do something a little different?" Clark asks, piercing the almost tangible silence. "Nothing too crazy, I promise, I just...there's something I'd like to try. If it's alright."

Bruce frowns up at the ceiling. The request is...unusual. The fact that Clark is speaking at all is unusual. That's not what these encounters are about.

Clark never says anything when he shows up at the Batcave or the lakehouse, tired and struggling, an Atlas buckling under a weight too big even for his impossibly broad shoulders to bear; his eyes are eloquent enough, begging for any respite Bruce can provide. And Bruce knows – every time, he _knows_ – he should refuse, should have the moral fortitude to send Clark home, unsullied by Bruce's touch. But he's selfish in this, as he is in so many other aspects of his life. 

Instead, he takes Clark into the bedroom, and they fuck until Bruce's hopelessly inadequate body gives out, useless for anything else. He allows Clark to use him at will until he's a limp, spent mess – allows Clark to take whatever he needs until that haunted, broken look smoothes out into something resembling calm. It's not healing; not even Bruce is arrogant enough to believe he could bestow Clark with anything as pure as peace. But he can at least offer a service. He can give Clark a safe place to exorcise his demons and regrets, without judgement or recrimination. He can absorb the darkness that threatens to pierce even Clark's invulnerable skin, take it within himself so that Clark can return to the light where he belongs. 

But talking afterwards is never part of the agenda. In fact, Clark rarely even stays this long; usually, he's dressed and halfway across the bay to Metropolis by the time Bruce gets his breath back.

Bruce turns his head so he can study Clark's impossibly symmetrical profile. Lets his gaze roam over the perfection of Clark's form, the exterior of him a testament to superior, alien physiology. But Bruce knows, better than most, how deceiving appearances can be. Clark has innumerable scars rippling under the surface of smooth skin and flawlessly defined muscles. They leave their echoes for Bruce to trace with callused fingers, each one perfectly visible, if one knows where and how to look. They whisper their secrets to Bruce in the dead of night, a language of fear and failure and fatigue. A language Bruce has been fluent in since he was a child, grief the universal translator.

"I'm listening," he finally says, when it becomes clear Clark's waiting for a verbal response.

Clark climbs off the bed, all graceful lines, perfect economy of motion, and endless miles of naked skin. "Stay there," he says.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "You _do_ remember we're in my house." 

Clark huffs out a small laugh. "I didn't mean literally, I just meant...don't go anywhere."

Bruce doesn't respond. Instead, he comes up to his elbows so he can admire the view as Clark bends over to rifle through the pockets of his jeans. They've already gone three long, physically demanding rounds, but Bruce can feel that familiar itch, that visceral, palpable _need_ to sink sharp teeth deep into muscle and tissue, to claw under Clark's ribs to find the fierce, beating heart within. He has no right to it, no claim, but he's self-aware enough to recognize the craving for what it is. His own human weakness, crippling him yet again, an Icarus presuming to fly too close to the sun, and doomed by his hubris.

Then Clark straightens, and everything in Bruce freezes at the sight of a zip-tie draped across Clark's open palm.

"You don't have to say yes," Clark tells him. "But I'd like it if you did."

"Would you now," Bruce replies, mildly, thankful beyond measure for the decades of training that ensures his heart continues to beat a steady rhythm under his ribcage, despite the turmoil of his thoughts. "Do you even have any idea what you're asking for?"

"I do." Clark's hand doesn't move. His eyes stay focused on Bruce's face, the clear, unreal blue of them slicing under Bruce's skin with the precision of a scalpel. "The question is, do you trust me enough to let me?"

Bruce lifts his shoulders, deliberate and slow, and allows his lips to curve up into a smirk. "Contrary to popular opinion, I don't allow just anyone to fuck me."

Clark doesn't smile in return. "That's not an answer." 

"Isn't it?" Bruce counters.

"I don't know," Clark answers, quietly. "Is it?"

Bruce thinks about a word for what they are – one that could convey all of the ways they've broken each other, all of the ways they've stitched each other back together. A word for a bond that isn't friendship, but runs deeper than battlefield camaraderie. A word that summarizes the unique burden that binds them together, the weight of it dragging them down like an undertow, yet buoying them up like a lifeline – but there is no such word, not in any language Bruce knows. And, in the end, talking has never been their strongest attribute. 

Instead, Bruce simply offers his wrists.

Clark smiles, and it's not a smile Bruce knows how to read. There's something soft and open about it, almost vulnerable, and the sight throws Bruce off-kilter enough he almost misses Clark's next words. "I'd like your hands behind your back, if you don't mind."

"You're just full of surprises tonight," Bruce observes, allowing the sharp edge of it to bleed into the amiable tone.

But Clark, unexpectedly, doesn't rise to the bait. "Is that a no?"

Bruce concedes the battle by rising to his feet and lacing his hands at the small of his back. Clark pulls the zip-tie closed around Bruce's wrists – snug, but not tight enough to interfere with circulation. Bruce could definitely get out of it, and he and Clark both know it, but it's the symbolism that counts. The trust that Bruce will keep his unspoken promise. 

And Bruce may not be a hero (or much of a person, when it comes down to it), but when he gives his word, even if it's tacit, it still means something. Which means he allows Clark to lead him into the spacious walk-in closet. Allows himself to be tugged and arranged until he's standing in front of the wall-length mirror, Clark a close, warm presence behind him. 

"Perfect," Clark states, and props his chin on Bruce's shoulder. His look in the mirror's reflection is pleased, his grin wide and winsome and wholly out of place, considering the circumstances. Bruce can't fathom why he would be the recipient of such a look, why Clark would choose to bestow it upon him. 

Clark slides his hands along Bruce's shoulders, runs them along Bruce's arms, and tangles their fingers together briefly. Then one of his hands drifts across Bruce's hip to his groin. He circles Bruce's cock and starts stroking, nice and easy and slow, and completely different than how Clark normally touches him. Not that Bruce's body seems to care about the change of pace, because he's pushing into Clark's fist, and tilting his head so Clark's lips can burn a new path along his nape. 

He glances at himself in the mirror, the way his shoulders are arched, emphasizing the breadth of his chest. Takes in the hard planes and harsh angles of his body, the innumerable scars and lacerations and bruises, a lifetime of far too many mistakes writ large on his skin. It's hard not to compare himself to Clark's unblemished and youthful appearance, even though he _knows_ Clark's perfection is illusory. It's harder still to allow Clark unfettered access to _see_ him, without the haze of lust clouding their minds, but he fights the urge to retreat. 

He may not be worthy of Clark's full attention and focus, but this is something Clark needs. And Clark's needs are all that matters.

"How do you feel?" Clark asks, his other hand running lightly along Bruce's ribs and abs.

Bruce glances down to his rock-hard cock, then back up to meet Clark's heated gaze. "I don't hate it," he replies, one side of his mouth quirking up.

Clark gives a mock-solemn nod. "A ringing endorsement," he says, as he slides his hand lower, rolls each of Bruce's balls between those clever fingers. 

Then he swears under his breath, and steps back. "Forgot the lube, sorry. Don't go anywhere."

"Still my house," Bruce reminds him, and catches the reflection of Clark's quick smile in return. Once again, it's oddly affectionate and sweet, _different_ enough that Bruce – who's made studying Clark a mission – is still puzzling over its meaning when Clark returns. 

He's back far too quickly for any normal human, but Clark's _not_ human, and Bruce appreciates that Clark doesn't try to hide that fact when they're together. This time, his fingers are coated with clear gel, and when he closes his fist around Bruce's length, the grip firm but smooth as silk, it's almost too easy to let his eyelids fall shut, to trust Clark will –

"No." The word is a whip-crack along the back of Bruce's neck. "Keep them open."

Bruce blinks at Clark through the mirror. "Giving me orders now?" he jokes, far too breathless for his liking. 

Clark skims his lips across Bruce's shoulder and those slick fingers slide over him again. "Yes, I am," he states, no room for argument. "Every time we do this, you've made it crystal clear you think I'm only with you because of what you can give me. And I'm done letting you lie to both of us about why you let me in every _single_ time I show up. Because we both know it's not out of obligation, and it's sure as hell not out of guilt."

Bruce freezes again, his hands curling into fists. The urge to break free, to fight, is a siren's call beckoning him to ruin. "Don't mistake my compliance for charity," he warns, his voice low, guttural, much more suited to crime-ridden alleyways than a closet filled with bespoke suits. 

Clark doesn't even flinch in response. He stares at Bruce, implacable, immovable, daring Bruce to defy his will. And Bruce is contrary enough to want to test his mettle and strength against Clark's, but it's a fleeting thought at best. He's already been down that path, and knows exactly where it will take him. 

"You're going to keep your eyes on me as I take you apart," Clark commands, that low voice rumbling from his solid chest like a perfectly tuned engine. "You're going to watch while I _give_ you all the pleasure you refuse to take for yourself, and you're going to see what I see." 

The words wrap themselves around Bruce like a finely-woven net. There's a new weight settling around them, binding them as close together as the zip-tie around Bruce's wrists. A moan bubbles in his throat, caught behind his lips. Need, a tsunami of it, crashes over him in waves, drowning every other emotion in its path. But he does not – _cannot_ – look away.

Clark's teases at his hole, still open and relaxed from earlier, then cradles his sac again. "I'm going to make you feel so good, Bruce," he vows. "All I need you to do is let go."

It's not a request. This is a god demanding submission as his right, promising rapture in exchange for obedience. And Bruce, fragile, sublunary, _unworthy_ , is helpless to do anything other than obey. He bows his head and offers himself, wretched, undeserving creature that he is, as a sacrifice. 

His thighs tremble as he flexes into Clark's touch, wordlessly begging for more. He watches Clark, watches himself, his sweat-slick skin, his parted lips, the glassy look in his eyes. He's a wreck already, unraveling, splayed open like a ritual offering, waiting at an altar for Clark to carve out his piece of flesh. The image, beautiful and terrifying, sears into his brain, digging under his pores to create a new scar, this one for Clark alone.

"That's it, there you go," Clark murmurs, soft and sibilant, and Bruce's body clenches in return. He can feel his orgasm building, starting at the base of his spine and racing up, electricity crackling inside every cell, and he is so close, so fucking close – 

"Not yet."

"Please..." The word is wrenched out of him, as if Clark's reached into the messy, bloody center of him and has tugged out his heart. The image evokes the memory of his nightmarish vision, when he'd been foolish enough to think he could escape his preordained fate at Clark's hands. He knows better now, knows his ruination has been inevitable since the night he and Clark met. 

Clark whispers the next words, a secret, along the shell of Bruce's ear. "I want to be inside you when I allow you to come."

Bruce has no idea how it's even possible, but his cock gets harder, pre-come leaking out of the slit, his balls drawn tight against his body. " _Please_ ," he repeats, all other words lost in the blaze consuming him. _Please_. 

Then Clark's hands are on his hips again, holding him steady as he lifts Bruce a few inches off the ground, like Bruce's solid bulk weighs nothing. He can feel the tip of Clark's cock pressing right against his hole, and the ache – the sheer, desperate _want_ – swamps every other feeling. There's no room for anything other than Clark, the physicality of him overwhelming all of Bruce's senses.

"I've got you," Clark tells him, his teeth scraping Bruce's nape. "Just relax and watch yourself. See how beautiful you are while I'm fucking you."

Bruce jerks out a nod; he's beyond voice or reason. But it seems to be enough for Clark, who shifts slightly, and then he's pushing into Bruce, hard and thick and unyielding. And even though this isn't the first time Clark's fucked him tonight, the delicious burn of it licks at his nerves and scalds his skin, threatens to swallow him anew.

"Eyes open," Clark reminds him. And, with his hands firm on Bruce's hips, starts to rock up into him, as slow and easy as the handjob had been, like he's not holding Bruce up in mid-air, with no anchor to tether him to the earth. "Tell me what you see."

Bruce glances in the mirror again and shivers. Fuck, he looks like a ragdoll, created simply for Clark's amusement, a plaything with no thought other than pleasing Clark and being pleased by him in return. "I see you...inside me," he groans, lolling his head back to rest against the solidity and safety of Clark's shoulder. 

"Gorgeous, isn't it," Clark comments, as he moves, thighs bunching and flexing effortlessly. "You, so open for me, welcoming my cock inside your body..."

"Yes, it's..." Bruce hisses, and rotates his hands, itching with the need to touch, to wrest some semblance of control back to himself, to _please_ Clark the way he always does. His eyes are half-closed, his cheeks are mottled and red, and there are tendrils of perspiration trailing from his hairline and dotting his forehead. He's spread wide open, Clark's cock pushing inside him, slow and rhythmic, entirely at Clark's mercy. 

"I can't get enough of you," Clark says, voice muffled as he presses light kisses to Bruce's jawline, each touch another brand claiming Bruce again. "Your need, your want...could fuck you just like this forever, if you'd let me..."

"Yes," Bruce answers, his voice a broken, trembling thing he doesn't even recognize as his. Right now, he would let Clark do anything, just as long as Clark never stopped.

Clark jerks under him, the steady rhythm faltering for a handful of seconds. Then he's moving again, faster now, still controlled, _still_ so aware of all of his strength and what it can do, but allowing Bruce to feel the tightly clenched restraint under it. "Thank you," Clark whispers, "I promise, I won't let you down..."

"C'mon...do it..." Bruce chants, and he feels so exposed, so small and fragile and _human_ ; he's shattering, he's in pieces, and still, Clark keeps moving, relentless and deep and hard. 

"Look at yourself, Bruce, look at how beautiful you are –"

– And Bruce lets go, trusting Clark to catch him before he hits the ground. The weightlessness wonder of falling is magnificent, the freedom from restraint and obligation unlike anything he's ever known. Clark soothes him through the aftermath with soft touches and softer words, and he's grateful for the gentleness, grateful that Clark thinks he's even worthy of it. 

Then Clark breaks the zip-tie, finally freeing his wrists, but all Bruce does is slump against Clark's chest and tilt his head up until he can see those unreal blue eyes without any barrier between them. Clark's gaze softens as he brushes his lips against Bruce's, the kiss feather light, yet weighted with all of the words they don't need to say.

He groans in protest when Clark's softened cock slips out of him, the loss almost unbearable. Clark guides him back to the ground, but keeps an arm around Bruce's waist to keep him close.

"You good?" Clark asks, the kisses moving to Bruce's cheek, tongue scraping rough across unshaven skin. 

"No," Bruce admits, too broken open for anything except honesty. "But I feel..."

He stops. The words are nebulous, just out of reach, and he's too drained to try to chase after them. He's not sure he could articulate his thoughts in any language he knows. He's not sure any such words exist.

"It's fine," Clark tells him. "You don't have to say anything."

Bruce nods, grateful for the reprieve, and gives himself over to Clark's gentle touches, finding comfort in the small connection. He wobbles when he steps away, but Clark's there to balance him, still anchoring him to the earth with nothing more than a light hand on his hip. Bruce turns and wraps his arms around Clark, and pulls him close for another kiss, this one unhurried and deep.

When they part, Clark rests his forehead against Bruce's, and inhales slowly, like Bruce is a delicacy he wants to savor. Bruce does the same, breathing in Clark's scent, sunlight and earth, until his lungs feel coated in it. They stay just like that, quiet and reverent, the space between them a covenant, until Clark finally pulls back and smiles, the soft, open, affectionate one that Bruce finally knows how to read.

"Thank you for trusting me," Clark says, like Bruce could have ever done anything but. Like Bruce had ever had - or wanted - a choice.

"It's not like I didn't get anything out of it," he replies, then cocks his head in the direction of the bedroom. "I was thinking a shower, then bed. You interested?"

"You...you're inviting me to stay the night?"

"I can't make you breakfast in the morning if you don't," Bruce replies, amused at Clark's incredulous tone. 

This man – this divine, far superior being – has chosen Bruce as _his_ , out of all of the better, more worthy options available to him, and somehow he's still looking at Bruce like Bruce is the one doing him the favor. Unbelievable. Unfathomable. Yet, Bruce is selfish enough (always selfish enough) to want Clark to keep looking at him, just like that, for as long as he can.

Clark blinks owlishly, so at odds with how in command he'd looked earlier, and yet so endearingly perfect. "Wait, you cook?" 

Bruce laughs, fond, and so very very in... Well, he's still not worthy of _that_ word, not yet. But he'll get there. For Clark, he'll try every day to earn it. "Yes," he says, "I cook."

Clark beams at him, bright and happy, incandescence in physical form. "Well, in that case, I'd be delighted," he answers, then kisses Bruce again, both of them making promises in a language only the other one knows. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> You can now find me on [Tumblr](https://brendaonao3.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
